The Boy I Never Knew
There’s a beautiful young tree over in the corner. I think that’s where I would most enjoy being buried, if one can take enjoyment from such things. I love trees. And in the corner, I wouldn’t have people all around me. I think I’ll need my space, even in death.
As I reflect on thoughts of those who have passed, it occurs to me that as I age, the world of the dead is slowly becoming as much a part of my life as the world of the living. People I have loved are gone, but I think of them as if they are still here, and somehow knowing that they have gone before me makes it easier for me to conceive of going there myself.
Not far from Mom and Dad’s headstone is Carlton Young’s. It’s small, like he was when he died at the tender age of three.
There is a skeleton-in-the-closet story hinting that years ago there was some clandestine coupling between my grandmother and a gentleman in the Young family, which resulted in the birth of my mother. If this is true, and my mother believed it
was, it means that little Carlton may actually be a something-times removed ancestor. My mother and I read about him in a local history book years ago, and upon discovering his headstone in the nearby cemetery, we were both instantly
taken with his story.
It was only recently that I decided to try to find more information, if possible, at the Lennox and Addington Country Museum and Archives in Napanee, where I discovered a newspaper clipping detailing the tragic event.
Carlton’s mother Hattie was preparing to do the wash, and had just set a pail of boiling water on the floor. Three year-old Carlton skipped happily into the house after playing outside. I can only imagine how busy his mother was, and how full of life little Carlton must have been. Not a care in the world. Until he, perhaps preoccupied with eagerly relating playtime adventures to his mother, lost his footing and tumbled backward into the pail of boiling water. The newspaper article, printed later that week, notes that Carlton was “very seriously scalded, the skin from the waist to the knees fairly peeling off.”
A tear slides down my cheek as I write this. To me, somehow, this happened yesterday. Of course in modern times, there is a chance he could have been saved, but in those days, the doctor was called and did all that he could. Carlton died a few days later. We can only imagine how agonizing a death this would have been at any age; and how tortured his parents must have been, hopeless and horrified as they watched their child fade from life in front of their eyes, perhaps in their grieving arms.
Hattie and John Young went on to have three other children. None can be found in the Sillsville Cemetery, but Carlton is not alone. Based on dates and family history searches, one can assume that it’s his aunt, Elizabeth Young, who is buried directly to the left of him. She died at the age of three as well, but years before Carlton was born. She never met her nephew, at least not in life, but they are forever side by side in death.
A tree once grew between Elizabeth and Carlton. The stump shows that it branched off in two directions, one limb to shelter each of them. The larger stone to the right of Carlton has fallen over, embedded too deeply and far too heavy for me to lift, but I try nonetheless. It is quite likely his parents, Hattie and John, who are known to have been interred here.
Each time I visit my parents in the cemetery, I visit Carlton’s stone as well. Sometimes I leave a flower. Today I lean over and touch it, brushing away the freshly-mown grass, and smile. I feel some strange connection to this little boy I never knew. This child who wasn’t of my time or life, yet somehow, he is mine. I feel the need to let him know that I am there, and that he also occupies the ever-widening space in my heart that is slowly filling up with those I love who have passed, and yet are still and forever will be, part of my world.
